caldrail

The Romans certainly got about in small numbers... http://www.unrv.com/forum/index.php?showtopic=5635 But our experience with Ireland is an example of seeing more than there actually was. The apparent Roman sites found there might be no more than places where refugees ended up, or merchants called, thus evidence of Roman goods exist without any actual Romans. India is however part of the world that Strabo describes. We know that explorers reaching India from western Europe from the Rennaisance onward found christian colonies there which were quickly demonised by the Roman Catholics (the colonies still exist today in a muted form) That said, I wouldn't expect more than a handful of Romans to have ever been there, let alone settled, given that trade goods were usually passed from trader to trader like a relay race rather than individual shiops bravely going the entire marathon. The goods found in India are almost certainly the result of trade. But hey, prove me wrong, I'm all ears.

Funny how things are never quite what they seem. A couple of nights ago I was watching a documentary about that big Live Aid gig of all things. You know the one? Bob Geldof leading the worlds response to the plight of starving Ethopians in 1985 by staging huge charity gigs in stadiums both in Britain and the US? The most interesting thing I learned was how ramshackle the organisation was. The whole event nearly collapsed under its own weight, never mind the attitude of some eclectic individuals involved. Considering how chaotic life often became for Red Jasper I have to say our gigs usually passed off with much less drama. Perhaps that's one reason why we failed. There simply wasn't enough theatre about our performances. Having played large open air festivals in my time I remember how it felt going on stage in front of such a large anonymous crowd. Playing to a large number of people invites a strange sense of importance to the whole thing, even if the event isn't in the glare of media attention. Part of you is invigorated with enthusiasm, adrenaline, and the knowledge that you have an opportunity to impress. The other part of you is concious of the enormity of what you're about to attempt, never mind the potential for embarrasing failure. I guess though that if it worries you too much, you really shouldn't be up there. I went on stage wanting to perform. That was all my mind was focused on. Sometimes though things happen when you least expect. We played a bikers rally on the Isle of Wight one year, and as part of the deal, as was usual with Red Jasper, we also provided the PA for the event with the mixing desk perched in the back of our van and the singers partner handling the faders. The whole event was running well behind schedule. We had our ferry ticket booked and needed to be away for a gig in London the following night. I don't know where the other band members went. I ended up sat in the van beside Jean watching the headline act and getting increasingly impatient as the clock ticked by. The 'Blues Brothers' tribute band played their last number and despite lingering cheers from the crowd, they wandered away to the sides of the stage looking for all the world as if they'd lost interest. Is anything happening? No? A number of roadies began lazily collecting bits and pieces on the stage. At that point I thought it was all over. Pull the cables, Jean! We're outta here. With some haste I began dismantling the equipment. To my horror, the event compere went on stage and tried to announce an encore with a dead microphone. Disaster! We've unplugged half the desk and it's pitch black in this darn vehicle. We'll be here all night. He dropped off the stage and headed for us. I was out the van and awaited his approach. Meanwhile the crowd realised we weren't playing ball. Shouts of "Turn the van over!" could be heard as the mood got ugly. With the crowd closing in and looking on in sullen silence the compere demanded five songs as an encore. No. You can have one. "No way, five!" He insisted. Okay, we'll compromise. You can have two. But after that we pack up and go home. The compere agreed and to my relief, never mind that of our thoroughly frightened sound engineer sat behind me, a subdued cheer emerged from the crowd as they forgot the confrontation and waited for their favourite band to play. Never had we connected a sound desk so quickly. No drama? No theatre? Perhaps there was, occaisionally, for all the wrong reasons.That said, my experience is nonetheless lacking in one major respect. One film clip of Wembley Arena that day looked out into the audience with the late Freddy Mercury of Queen launching into Radio Ga Ga. A whole stadium full of people clapping in unison, utterly bewitched by his presence. Even on the television screen, without the feel of actually being there, it was an extraordinary sight to witness. Nothing I did on stage ever came anywhere close to that. On The Other Hand... I see the A-Team movie is soon to hit our screens with guns and wisecracks blazing. Having watched the trailer I can only marvel at the skill of film makers. How could anyone take the worst television action series ever and make it even more dreadful? And still make money from it? Come on guys, make a film about me...

The government have released a map describing the effects of a four centigrade degree rise in average temperature across the world. It's quite a horrific possibility when you grasp the details - but that's exactly why it was released. Carrying straight on where our previous government left off, the climate change propaganda machine marches on. I've said this before and I'll say it again. We're not necessarily to blame. The Ice Ages officially ended something more than ten thousand years ago but what isn't generally realised is those ice expansions and plummetting temperatures were not constant. There were a number of such expansions, and in between , it got warm again. Those periods are called interglatials. Strictly speaking, we're in one now, and experts believe that the next ice expansion will occur in fifty thousand years time. In the meantime, yes, it will get warmer. It's happened before. We know that the British Isles had a climate similar to modern Africa at least once during the Ice Ages. There were no cars, no industries, no high carbon economies. It simply got hot naturally. And the process is currently repeating itself. I wish governments weren't so irresponsible in these scare tactics. It's purely designed to get us to accept costly policies we don't need. Because at the end of the day, it makes no difference whatsoever whether we adopt low carbon economies, pay more for production goods, or simply walk everywhere. At the end of the day, the strength of sunlight is variable, and the Earths orbit is not precisely the same every rotation. That's what drives the major changes. There are no economic policies that will stop those changes. At least King Canute knew it was pointless to order back the tide, and if I remember right, he didn't use it as an excuse to extort money from his subjects. Stirring Stuff I was watching a documentary last night about the Battle of Britain. How could I resist? No blue-blooded englishman can resist a retelling of that epic saga. This one focused on the discovery of reconnaisance photographs made by the Luftwaffe that provided some interesting insights into what was actually going on. In mid September 1940, one Lufwaffe intelligence report believed the RAF were down to their last fifty fighters. It is true Churchill was told at that time that there were no more reserves, but instead of four squadrons, we were actually fielding fifteen. Was it any good? Not bad. Most of these documentaries use more veteran talking heads with their personal anecdotes and in fact I found that their relative absence detracted from the program, for no other reason than it meant listening to the script for an hour. For me, the worst mistake this program made was in its use of period footage. Battle of Britain? I spotted the Western Desert, the Eastern Front of 1942/43, and either Sicily or Italy. Whoops. Stirring Syrup The Job Centre have passed me on to a job placement team. It isn't that I mind, but my claims advisor is seriously starting to annoy me. He keeps on hinting that he doesn't believe I'm as concientious about my job search as I claim. Anyway, the people at the placement team office are pleasant enough and gave me a website to follow up on possible job vacancies. Okay, lets log on... Seach... Hey, there are jobs going in Swindon. I 'll try this one. All I need to do is fill in an online application form. How hard can that be? As it turns out, the form was exactly what I was afraid it might be. It is a horrendous web document that expands to fill all avaliable space. I lost interest when they demanded the name of my cat and asked how long I'd been a feline owner, and could I explain in less than 500 words why cat ownership is good for Britain. Mandatory information too. I only get two hours a day for internet use. There just isn't enough time to wade through all this petty bureaucracy, and I seriously don't believe the company involved has any real use for the informatiion they ask for. No, I give up. I'm looking for a job somewhere else. I'll bet you can figure out why.

I think they did differentiate between wheat and barley. Barley was after all considered an animal food, used as a punishment meal by the legions and given to gladiators as a staple of their diet (though I admit it had desirable side effects)

Yesterday I was slightly greener than the day before. Nothing to do with imminent nausea, or envy at the Maserati that drives down the hill every morning, but compliance with the detailed instructions our eco-friendly ex-government foisted on us. Now that I can't simply leave unwanted bottles for the dustmen to collect, I must dispose of them responsibly myself. My old kitbag was bulging with unwanted glass, making dull chinking noises as I walked down the hill toward the car park where I knew the recycling bins had been stationed. When I got there, the bins were absent. Brilliant. Well I can't just leave the bottles there by the side of the car park however tempted I might be. This is an act of responsibility for crying out loud. Eventually I found a line of large bins for waste disposal by a small car park in Old Town. I was delayed in my task by TB, my former employment trainer, who was on her cigarette break, so I wandered over to say hello. Her colleagues ran away as I approached. What? Did I forget to remove the bolts from my neck? Luckily TB is made of sterner stuff and we had a pleasant chinwag for ten minutes, halted only by her desperate need to retain her job. Thing is though, although the weather was supposed to be boiling hot this weekend, it never really got there, and yesterday was a typical damp Swindon day. It was however very humid, so as I stood chatting to TB I was forever wiping sweat away. Now they're telling us the jetstream is about to deliver prolongued low pressure across Britain, and that can only mean more damp weather. It's drizzling heavily as I speak. Worse still, they're forecasting thunderstorms later this week. With energy bills soaring I'm tempted to rig a lightning conductor and get free electricity for a couple of seconds. Why waste thousands of volts? I'm not sure that's going to turn me green as such, and remember kids, don't do that at home. God Of Thunder We British are pleased to announce the latest word in remote control military aerial drones, the Taranis (named after a celtic god of thunder). Apparently this aeroplane is capable of crossing continents without detection by radar. It is virtually invisible. All for a low low price of

Turkey was the main distribution point of mankinds expansion out of Africa around 80,000 to 40,000 BC. Whatever civilisation existed then (and there are archaeological indications of an organised culture and spiritual life) was strongly based there.

According to Jpsephus, most of the survivng jewish rebels (or those accused of as such) were either sent to Egypt for hard labour or distributed to provincial arenas.

Life can be so cruel

My jobsearch is officially two years old. To mark this momentous anniversary, the Job Centre have asked me to sign on every day. Every day? Yes. Every day. Each day I must climb the stairs, await the call, and present the evidence that I'm actually looking for work. Can anyone understand the logic of this? I've been applying for jobs regularly for two years. Why do I need to go under the microscope like this? The answer seems obvious. Someone is making complaints and so I must be investigated. I wonder who? Revenge of the Letting Agent? A disgruntled neighbour? An overzealous police officer? Or just some spiteful idiot fired up by bigotry and misinformation? Nothing so insignificant. My new claims advisor has read the riot act to me and explained that since I'm such a useless jobseeker, the government has decided in their ultimate wisdom that retards need extra help. He tried to convey the inevitability of it all. As if I hadn't figured that out for myself. I already know what the rules are. I did mention though that having to come in every day was a bit... well... What's the word?.... "Threatening?" He suggested. No. Not threatening (even though he clearly wanted to impress upon me the awful reality of not telling the truth). It's... A little bit disempowering. He agreed. Tough. All part of lifes rich tapestry. Party Animals No, I've had enough. I need some fresh air and exercise. Time then for a walk aound Lawns and just get a breather from all this bureaucratic nonsense. I set out across the meadow on the hillside. The wild grass is a mix of pale and almost purple stalks stretching away to the trees that mark the boundary, split by mown pathways for people to walk along in various directions of convenience. I chose mine, and headed for the far side of the wood. To my left an old man wandered slowly, his black retriever enjoying his walkies with extraordinary exuberance for a dog of his size. It saw me and bounded straight over, intent on playing a sort of chase game as it would with another dog, but since I'm not qualified as a canine, I had no choice but to maintain normal human behaviour and pet the dog to keep it happy. Luckily the dog got the message despite its excitement at meeting a new friend. The owner was concerned that I was going to be angry at being accosted by his faithful companion, but no, how could I resent the dog's playful spirit? I simply chuckled and gave in to the dogs demand for attention. By strange coincidence a second black retriever was on its way, dragging its equally elderly owner in its wake. It too caught the happy mood and finding myself, quite literally, in a pack of party animals. That was a little daunting. The second owner was also concerned that I wasn't getting a little worried by these big dogs running and jumping about. "All right?" He asked me. Don't worry, I replied, I think I've gotten away with it. By even stranger coincidence a third black retriever was encountered in the woodland path leading back to the entrance of Lawns. The impatient female owner groaned at her dogs interest in another tree trunk and with some exasperation said "Do you have to sniff at every single tree?" Trust me lady, I know how you feel.

I suspect Roman emperors were not viewed as successful so much regarding conquests and monuments, but rather how their reign impacted on the personal lives of his subjects. How much tax did you pay last year? How many days of games were organised? Is the emperor a showman or a strange recluse? Has the water supply to your home been improved? Has the supply of corn been uninterrupted? Are slaves cheap and plentiful? Is the world ordered and peaceful in your back yard? Is justice fair? Has optimism returned to you and people you meet?

Another day, another takeaway vindaloo. Having ordered my meal I sat down and watched the world go by outside. Regents Circus is a busy little road junction and all sorts of people stroll by. Sometimes you see odd things. Now I'm no expert on ethnic dress, but the young moslem lad in a beige dress did look odd to my decadent and preconceptive western eyes. Even stranger was when he calmly walked across the road and drove off in a Bentley Continental GT. How much is this curry costing me? That White Car Again If I've mentioned this before then I apologise because I don't remember doing so. It's just that a few times lately I've spotted a white sports car driving down the hill. At first I wondered what it was. A sort of squarish style but not entirely displeasing. I couldn't see any makers badges and it was beginning to annoy me that I couldn't recognise this car at all. What on earth is it? Eventually I walked by when the vehicle was stationary at the traffic lights at the bottom of the hill. Embossed on the rear was the word "Pontiac". Pontiac? That's not a Trans-Am, the usual stateside offering we sometimes see over here. Then a moment of realisation hit me. This was a Fiero. Pontiac Fieros are mostly known in Britain as the donor vehicle for kit cars, thus we rarely see the vehicle in its pristine 'as Pontiac intended' form. Who knows, perhaps a kit car is due to hit the roads hereabouts in the near future? Prancing Horse Or Plodding Donkey? On my way to the curry house I pass a more upmarket resteraunt across the road. Parked outside the establishment so the owner could keep a wary eye on his vehicle was a gleaming red sports car with Ferrari badges. A pair of youths sat on the low college wall debating what it must be like to drive it. I should have spoken up. I really should. Because I know exactly what it's like. Not just driving the real thing which I've done on track days, but the Toyota MR2, the chassis on which this lookalike kitcar was based. Except it didn't really look right. Not one of the better ones. But at least the owner had the two youths completely fooled. One Last Word And before I sign off, a quick word to the Top Gear team. Just in case you really did think everyone was watching the football, let me assure you I wasn't. I did in fact suffer psychological trauma from discovering that Porsche are going horribly wrong, seeing an american muscle car that almost handled well, and finding out that the Stig is not the fastest cyborg on the planet. Under normal circumstances I would claim Incapacity Benefit whilst I recover my sanity but the current coalition government have banned claimants from ill health. Some might say I shouldn't have risked this trauma by watching Top Gear. Maybe, but I thought that was preferable to letting my brain atrophy watching overpaid haircuts play football. I hate to say it... But after being trounced by a certain Brazilian gentleman... Is the Stig old technology? Is he becoming obselete? The pressure is on.

Let us know if you find the reference - I'd like to know how true this is as well.

I think it might be a mistake to assume the Romans had the best materials. I'm not saying they didn't, but Persia had access to the inheritance of anatolian expertise as well, and the celts had a tradition of 'magic swords' which does imply a small number of high quality blades which is borne out by archaeological evidence.

The plot was always very simple. Something arrives on planet Earth, discovered in a remote spot, and once recovered from the shock of such a crash landing the alien presence begins to take over the world, slowly at first, then in a tumultuous wave of conquest once they realise how puny earthlings are. Mankind tries everything and resorts to atomic bombs, but to no avail, and the remorseless aliens keep marching onward. That is, until some simple thing defeats them in the last five minutes of the film. The hero kisses the girl who's spent the last two hours screaming, and fade to black with closing credits. If it's that easy, why worry about alien invasion? Just run about and make wild pompous statements for two hours until the aliens die off - hey, you might even get to have sex afterward. Yet despite this wisdom from the fifties film industry, we still believe there is a threat to Earth from outer space. It's a very medieval attitude. Dog-heads and dragons inhabiting bits of the map we've never been to. At least some people take that seriously. So much so that the European Space Agency has spent a cool 1.29 billion dollars on a probe called Rosetta, which has been to the asteroid belt to take images of Lutetia, a potato shaped asteroid that's been minding it's own business for billions of years. The ESA claim the fly-by shooting was a great success, and that the images could one day save Earth from destruction. Want to save the Earth from alien onvasion? Don't wait for them to trample your cities. Take photographs now, and blackmail their little green hides. Whilst Under Our Feet... A couple of day ago I took advantage of the warm sunshine and wandered out to the grassy escarpment above Swindons Front Garden. For those that don't know, that's the strip of land between the town and the motorway, following the valley between Swindon Hill and Wroughton Ridge. Many a time I've enjoyed the view, but sadly, life goes on, and nothing stays the same forever. The Wichelstok village development is now dominating the valley. Rows of bland modern houses, and an unfinished steel framework of a larger building. I sat there on the slope of an unspoiled field, an undulating mix of pasture and marsh, thickets of colourless tall grass, yellow flowers, and dark green reeds. Compared to the brick badlands emerging further away, it all seemed a little incongruous now. The local wildlife must have had the same opinion about me. A dragonfly closed in and hovered around, trying to figure out what I was, and whether I could be eaten. This was a biggie, a huge specimen with yellow and black bands, a monster compared to the bright blue dragonflies I usually see. Eventually his target recognition decided I was too big to be attacked and he flew off. Dragonflies are great survivors. They've been with us since the Carboniferous period, and back then some species had six foot wingspans. Definitely a trace of their DNA survives in the insect that just inspected me. That thought reminded me that the old railway cutting was just along the way. Let's see if I find another fossil or two. The exposed rock face displays the evidence that there was once a sandy beach here, a shallow bay, a warm sub-tropical paradise inabited by all sorts of animals long since vanished. In places, you can see the impression of sea shells, ranging from those very familiar to us in modern times, to that massive ribbed ammonite, a sort of 'squid in a shell'. In other places, plesiosaurs and other marine monsters have been found. What was obvious is that someone is digging these fossils out. In doing so, they're undermining the rock above, and sooner or later, their greed is going to cause death or injury. Who knows? Maybe in a few million years an intelligent species might be excavating the area and discover the crushed remains of Homo Idioticus? More likely it will be Homo Unfortunatus.

It's been quite an astonishing season for nutcases with shotguns in Britain. Sadly there's been all too many victims. Earlier this summer there was that taxi driver in Cumbria who went on a rampage, then Raoul Moat went on the run after threatening and attacking the police in Northumbria. In both cases the perpetrator shot himself. The taxi driver did so alone, Raoul Moat after a six-hour police attempt to persuade him to surrender. It always seems to end that way with random killers. I notice that in similar events in America, the gunman invariably turns the weapon on himself. This seems to be a part of human behaviour. Having lashed out at society the gunman cannot bear to face the consequences of what they've done and prefer suicide as an escape from shame. For a brief moment they're powerful. People run and hide from them in fear. Their name appears on television news with the public warned not to approach. The law-enforcement authorities concentrate all their attention on them so they feel important. Eventually, whether because reality becomes obvious, or ammunition runs low, or simply because the bloodlust fades, the perpetrator begins to understand that this temporary power is about to vanish. They cannot dictate events any more. They're contained, surrounded, powerless to act. And so they they turn the weapon on themselves. I know the correct thing is to try and apprehend the perpetrator peacefully, but if a man uses violence in this way, is he really going to consider a peaceful surrender as his best option? All too often the analysis afterward points at various indications we all should have noticed. The oddities and anomalies in their speech and actions before the event always indicate what they were planning to do in hindsight, but the problem is that most iof us wouldn't consider action of this sort so it's difficult to see the problem brewing. Right now, there are people questioning themselves and feeling shame that they didn't make that difference between life or death before Raoul Moat went on his rampage. The same thing with the taxi-driver in Cumbria. Or any other random killer. Could they really have stopped people like Raoul Moat? The rules of our society are clear. If they chose to act in this way, surely they must also have known they weren't going to get away with it forever. If mentally ill and unable to to listen to reason, what was the point of persuasion? There is a harder attitude here that is as old as humanity - An eye for eye. It's why some nations still have a death sentence in their legal system. Society needs to feel that justice has been done. Or that they can sleep safe in their homes. Perhaps it's easy for me to say this because the threat was somewhere else, but as for Raoul Moat ending his life on a riverbank at night by pulling a trigger - Good. That saved a few lives didn't it? Another Hot One Another weather warning. This time the weatherman is telling us it's going to be well hot. It's a strange thing really but we spend so much money and endure so much aggravation going abroad to experience hot weather, whereas at home we moan and groan and wish it would all go away. There's only so many times you can invite people to a barbeque in the garden. It does mean though that I'll be lying there at night unable to sleep. It's bad enough at the library this morning, with the air conditioning failing to make the air breathable with sixty computers turning up the heat. Maybe it's just a coincidence, but for once, no-one is making any noise.

There was a time when I used to enjoy good food. Okay, I'm not exactly a gourmet critic, but even in a modest supermarket it's possible to find something genuinely tasty these days. These days? That is the issue isn't it? I've been unemployed for two years, energy bills have doubled, my income hasn't, and the government want to cut the benefits we get paid. I can't afford to be too fussy or ambitious about what I eat any more, so inevitably the Pot Noodle crops up in the menu sometimes. Have you ever tried those things? It's what I imagine chinese astronauts might have to endure on long space voyages. I've become used to the Bombay Special Pot Noodle - probably the only one in the entire range that's in any way palatable - but recently that reached more than a pound a pot to purchase. It seems space flight is getting more expensive all the time. As it happens there's an alternative. A cheaper pot noodle sat on the shelf below. Looks like I'm going to have to try it. I could even stoop to the cheapest of all on the bottom shelf, costing a matter of a few pence, but my courage fails me at that point. So I purchased the unfamiliar instant meal of my choice. Curry and chips flavour. The instructions begin with "Rip off the lid in a manly fashion". Seriously, it really does say that. So after sweeping up the contents from the kitchen surface and putting it back in the plastic container, the only remaining task is to pour hot water into it. If a chinese astronaut can manage that, I'm sure I can. So what was the budget pot noodle like? Well it manages to avoid tasting bad by having no taste at all. It's like eating shredded plastic bags Not that I know what that's like, I haven't sunk to the depths of a Charlie Chaplin parody just yet, but how do you describe the sensation of something that's designed not to cause one? Just add water. Swindon By The Sea All this talk of global warming and rising sea levels reminds me of a map I once saw of what Great Britain would look like following a complete meltdown of the polar ice caps. Swindon would be roughly on the coast. It is an interesting point because it was once before. Back in parts of the Jurassic era the area, although further south at the time, was a sub-tropical archipelago with a coral reef stretching from what is now Wootton Bassett to Highworth. Back in the modern day I've just seen posters for a public event called "Swindon By The Sea". Are they serious? Maybe Swindon isn't exactly the centre of southern England, but it comes pretty darn close. How landlocked do we have to be before someone notices the sea isn't there? Climate change or not, I don't think I'll be needing to buy a boat just yet, and I doubt ethnic raindances are going to make Swindons climate any wetter. All the same, I'll keep an eye out for lines of animals marching two by two up the hill. But what's the point? That happens every saturday night...

The local paper is full of stories relating to the austerity measures our coalition government are pushing through. So far the main concern of residents appears to be crime, and whether a reduced police force is going to maintain law and order. There's another article worrying about how the young people of Swindon are going to cope with cuts in services. Probably by taking advantage of the reduced police presence I shouldn't wonder. Because Of Pay Cuts This morning I perused the libraries collection of old Ordnance Survey maps, some dating back to the 1880's. My primary interest was researching the route of a certain railway line I used to walk when I was a child. The saga of Swindons Other Railway is an interesting one. To build a north-south route through Great Western territory in the 19th century was tantamount to a declaration of war, and the two companies never fully co-operated even after being merged in 1923. When the Midland & South West Junction Railway (or in it's earlier guise, the Swindon Marlborough & Andover Railway) reached Swindon, they intended to link up with Brunels Great Western main line east of the station. The plan was to build the line through the Goddard Manor grounds, roughly between where the two lakes are at Lawns, and with some eye to compensation build a small station there too. Lord Goddard was having none of that. They can build their grimey railway somewhere else. So the next plan was to link up in the same place but instead of a route to the east of Swindon Hill, they started a tunnel under it. The workings were plagued with trouble. Swindon Hill was home to a large number of natural springs, and the complex geology did not lend itself to secure digging. In the end, workers weren't paid, and the whole thing was abandoned. The railway eventually forged a new route around the southwest of Swindon to join at Rushey Platt Junction. That of course meant Swindoners were upset, because the road that linked old town with the newer urban growth down the hill was split in two by the tunnel workings. So they built a new road that linked Victoria Street and Regents Circus, and that's where I live today. My street exists because a railway wanted to build a tunnel. The north side of the tunnel workings is now Queens Park, and looking at it today, you simply wouldn't know why it was there. Fascinating stuff.

The pen is mightier than the sword. On the face of it, that's a silly thing to say. More than once I sat through a school assembly in bored silence while the headmaster gave yet another rendition of that parable. Even as a child I knew swords were painful. Pens? They just make a mess in your pocket and give the teachers an excuse to mark you down. Perhaps that's one reason why I used to pull the wool over my teachers eyes at every excuse. I once drew a diagram of the Mexican deployment at the Battle of the Alamo - complete fiction of course - and the normally suspicious history teacher was impressed. Hey! Maybe pens have their uses after all? Heh heh heh... I could see the saga of my ailing bathroom light carrying on and on and on. It's no good, I'm going to have to resort to Text Editors of Mass Destruction. So in a state of some annoyance I typed out my letter of complaint, signed it, and passed it on to the letting agent. Yesterday afternoon an electrician called almost timed to the exact second. He stood at the doorway dedecked with tools and stepladders with a nervous smile. Poor chap was scared stiff for some reason. The repair was over in seconds, with a short wait while he went away to get some replacement bits and pieces, and lo and behold my bathroom light functions again! Warm, creamy, visible light! My urge to hug and kiss the repair man has nothing to do with sexual tendencies but I suspect that was why he was nervous to begin with. Thank you Mr Repairman, thank you! Why are you running down the stairs? Looking Good I was practising keyboards the other day when a family group stopped by the traffic lights opposite my home to cross the road. A young lady was decked out in military cammo gear. I think she was a little young for army service so I assume she was a cadet, but she did look good in that stuff. Err, I mean, she looked smart.. A credit to her unit... Excuse me a moment, I'm going to take advantage of the bathroom light repair and take a quick cold plunge before I start typing love letters. You just know that will all end in tears. Buzzing Around A thin, nasty, high pitched drone was very audible. It sounded a bit like those radio control aeroplanes. I looked around for the source of the noise and there. wafting loudly through the sky, was an autogyro. You don't see many of those flying. All it needed was a 'James Bond' soundtrack and a few explosions. Must type a letter to the manufacturers... Please make autogyro's more exciting.

No, it was a little different. Although the system was effectively the same as the older grammar schools, the newer comprehensive schools were undeniably biased toward socialist tendencies and thus every student was supposed to be treated the same. So in effect showing talent mattered little. You had to push yourself if you wanted to get somewhere. That said, there were still some teachers who were more supportive. I'm thinking of an english teacher who was very keen to keep me writing, whereas on the other end of the scale, that awful woman who went by the label of a biology teacher. Funny thing is though I got ungraded in history. Bill Slater, my history teacher, had colluded with my parents to give me a hard time for some reason. He used to jump on me for no apparent reason whatsoever - though in fairness, I got off lightly compared to some other kids.

Fair enough. But I doubt the training these auxillaries received was extensive. Raising troops to repel an invasion does indicate a matter of urgency. Unfortunately I don't have any detailed commentary on that incident but I will look further. ---===--- Okeedokee. At the age of 26 Caesar decides to raise a local army to help fight Mithradates. It says a great deal about the character of the man and his ability to organise, but be careful, because it also tells us something about the character of the people he was raising an army from. After all, we don't read of any difficulties though I have to accept that may be a measure of bias in the story. Had Caesar made the same initiative in the late empire he would have encountered the same difficulties as other leaders of the period. The quality of veterans and recruits would have been the same. Since the empire of that day was a different animal to late Republican Rome of Caesars time we have to make a lot of assumptions in this hypothetical situation. Personally, I have no doubt Caesar could have done something like that but realise he was almost certainly utilising local help in doing so. There was far less willingness to assist a military venture in the late empire, and as we know from the circumstances surrounding the gothic wars of the 4th century, Caesar would have found himself struggling with petty politics as well.

- If a roman legion, and auxillaries was involved, why do the excavators estimate the roman force at 1000 ? This was a punitive raid, not a campaign of conquest. The forces were not required to be any larger and given what had happened in AD9, perhaps the Romans could be forgiven for not risking their entire legion! - Why are most of the sandal nails, so far found concentrated at the base of the slope leading to the Germanic tribes position on the top of the hill ? Most likely that was where the Roman casualties fell. - How did the romans have enough time to get their 'artillery', that is ballista, up the hill and into position if this was an ambush ? They didn't. The bolts were fired onto the hill from the north. - Why are their no Germanic artifacts found ? Either looted from the Germans at the scene by Roman soldiers or revovered later by tribesmen - Why did the Romans not collect their used arrows and ballista projectiles after the battle ? They wanted to move on, plus there was no guarantee the spent projectiles were usable. - If it was a Roman victory why was it not more recorded ? The Romans might have mentioned the campaign in the Historia Augusta, telling us that in the summer of 238 Maximinus Thrax marched troops north from Moguntuacum (Mainz) for three or four hundred miles on a mission to revenge some damaging raids mounted by german tribesmen over the previous five years, though the plan had been prepared by his predecessor, Severus Alexander. That concurs with the approximate date of this battle. Unfortunately the Historia Augusta is widely regarded as inaccurate and thus the distances have always been in doubt. As for the scale of the batttle, it's a minor engagement. The Germans occupied a hill blocking the route of march so the Romans dealt with it and moved on quickly to avoid further encounters - they were limited in numbers. Estimates reckon it was all over in thirty minutes - and that's quick work by ancient standards - thus I doubt the records of the time paid much attention to it. Also there were other larger campaigns during the period the Romans probably found more interesting to write about. In any case, not all records survive. - Which Legion(s) were involved ? "Summer 238...Maximinus led out his entire army and crossed the bridge (over the Rhine) fearlessly, eager to do battle with the Germans. Under his command was a vast number of men, virtually the entire Roman military force, together with many Moorish javelin men and Osrehenian and Armenian archers; some were subject peoples, others friends and allies, and included, too, were a number of Parthian mercenaries and slaves captured by the Romans. Entire Roman military force? I don't think so. That sounds like a mistake by the Roman authors rather than an exaggeration. What was meant was that Maxminus took almost the entire force raised to attack the Germans, not the empires forces as a whole. - Is the similarity to the opening battle in the film 'Gladiator' purely coincidental ? Yes. But the film does not portray the forces engaged at Harzhorn Hill, but legions in Marcus Aurelius's campaigns of fifty years earlier.

Oh good grief! Even on a website I can't escape that man's sales pitch

With my daily internet stuff dealt with, it was time to depart the library and make my way into the wilds of the countryside. It was a warm day,. A very warm day, despite the plentiful cloud, and walking up the road toward Hodson I was sweating mightily. If I were honest, my own fitness was not helping, largely because I'm not as fit as I was last year. Without intending to I was finding any excuse to sit down and just chill out. Sometimes you just notice something. It grabs your attention. I remember a friend of mine, TB, a singer songwriter, who was for no apparent reason captivated by the sound of the wind rushing through the leaves of the trees. I know what he means. It can be such a relaxing noise, but in his case, his attention was drawn to it completely. So much so that he forgot he was in a well-to-do area, and a passing police car decided he should take his attention elsewhere. His embarrasement probably saved him from arrest. In my case, it was a field near the motorway. In past years I've wandered that field. At the time I thought it was left fallow, but later I realised the farmer had turned it into a tree plantation. Somewhere I have a photograph of it. A field coloured russet brown by the tightly packed stems. Yesterday that field caught my attention. In a moment of amazement I realised those trees were now twice my height, and so closely packed that it was seriously dark in there. What a wonderful haven of wildlife it must be inside that gloomy wood. On balance, I'll leave them in peace. Getting inside that thicket of trees is more trouble than it's worth. But what a difference a few years make. More Vegetation The rear gate of the old college site was open when I passed by the other day. You should see it now. Nature is well on the way to reclaiming the abandoned buildings and grounds. Tall weeds and small trees sprouting from every crevice. Funny thing is I think it looks great. It really does. Much nicer than the bare asphalt or the characterless concrete and brick walls. Like something out of a cheesey 70's sci-fi film. And I note Charlton Heston visited Swindon once in 1968. I wonder where they got the inspiration for "Planet of the Apes" from? Cutting Back The Undergrowth Talking about chilling out, I bumped into an old guy sat by a footpath enjoying the good weather. His dog, a black spaniel named Daisy growled at me. Naughty girl. "It's your backpack" The old man suggested knowingly, "The dogs don't like it." What? Nonsense. Can't a dog recognise a human being when it sees it? But after being growled at by a small terrier as I passed by I have to wonder if I need a haircut after all.

I encountered a lot of barriers in those days. University was out of the question because I failed, largely out of boredom and teenage rebellion, to get sufficient grades (but what a great time I had!). By that stage I'd discovered music and nothing was going to stop me pursuing that direction in life, especially since I was getting pressured by my parents to join the services. I don't think my father has ever really forgiven me for not joining the army as he did. As it happens I did study engineering at Swindon College. It was never a happy relationship.

Almost like writing text with a musical score. Just goes to show how lazy we are in the era of the autocue.